


La Valette - A Dark World

by fizzbuzzler



Series: La Valette [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Injury, Bloodplay, Breathplay, Gladiators, Hate Sex, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Prison Sex, Submission, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-23 18:37:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11995632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizzbuzzler/pseuds/fizzbuzzler
Summary: Inspired by that one scene at the beginning of Witcher 2 when Geralt was in the dungeons at Roche's mercy. Now with additional Iorveth.Roche is running an illegal fight arena with certain other services provided as well.Fun fact: gladiators in ancient Rome had quite the sex appeal and wealthy women would use them to fulfil their fantasies. At least some archeologists think that... :-) And who am I to question such a perfect idea for a story.Also this is basically pure smut all the way.





	La Valette - A Dark World

He hated that grin. Whenever Roche started to move the corners of his mouth up in that fashion, it didn’t bode well for him. Geralt tried to stay upright, the last fight had sapped his strength to the core, and mentally prepared himself for whatever the commander of the special forces, and prison pimp par excellence, had in store for him.  
“My, my - Witcher, you’ve outdone yourself this time. Three Nilfgaaridan heavy armed knights basically hacked to pieces after you fought those endregas, and you are still going strong.“ He leered at Geralt “And all that without any armor whatsoever and just a rusty old sword. Good thing the potions work well, too. No more casting signs for you, White Wolf.” With that he stepped cautiously closer and took the weapon from Geralt’s sweaty hand. The Witcher didn’t bother trying to fight - he had by now learned not to. And he had learned it the hard way. But somehow he was still amused by Roche’s caution towards him - the man was no idiot. Which was unfortunate. Because otherwise Roche would be a bloody stain on the floor, and Geralt would have been long gone.  
Those last three months in the La Valette dungeons, and Roche’s private amusement parlor had taken their toll on him. A few more scars adorned his body, and due to the potions he was forced to take, his Witcher senses were near inexistent - including his ability to cast signs.  
  
His musings were disturbed when he felt a cold hand on his hip. As per usual he was only wearing a loincloth. ‘The audience wants to see flesh torn apart, not leather or metal’, had been Roche’s explanation. Unfortunately it was mostly him without any armor - his opponents usually wore something more fitting to a lethal fight.  
There were only a few times where the other would have equally minimal protection. A shiver ran down his spine at the thought of those fights. They were Roche’s special events. It seemed that half the town’s nobility of both the upperclass and underworld would show up to those. Although they were not fought to the death, the loser usually sustained severe injuries. And that was before the winner had had his way with him. Roche only let men fight in those special tournaments. And for the winner to leave the arena alive, he had to first plough the loser, in whatever way he preferred, as long as it happened down there on the sands of the arena in front of the audience. The whole sick spectacle was a big deal in terms of bets, and Roche charged a ridiculous entrance fee for those lucky enough to be admitted into the dark cubicles above the arena.  
  
The hand moved over his lower abdomen and fingertips traced underneath the rough fabric of the loincloth. Geralt’s breath hitched slightly before he got himself back under control. But Roche had felt it. “I already have a few offers for you tonight - one of them is an interesting lady. Sorceress, I believe. But I don’t think that I’ll lend you out. I’m inclined to have some enjoyment for myself tonight, privately.” His hand had wandered up the Witcher’s abs and slithered across his chest. Roche pinched one of Geralt’s nipples and twisted hard. This time Geralt groaned audibly and his knees buckled. “Oh yes - I can feel it. We’re gonna have a lot of fun.”  
With one last look that showed no emotion but lust and unforgiving steel behind it, Roche turned, and walked out the door of the arena’s backroom. After he had left, four men were entering. They carried shackles and long sharp spears. Geralt knew better than to do anything stupid, and just turned around and held his hands together behind his back.  
The shackles snapped shut and he was then escorted to his cell by the men. Before they locked him in, one hit him in the back of his legs with the shaft of his spear. Geralt went down on his knees. Another one forced him to open his mouth and poured in a horrible concoction - the potion to dull his Witcher senses. He swallowed hard and then opened his mouth to show that there was nothing left. It was a well known ritual by now - all parties involved knew their respective roles. Geralt would have gone to his knees by himself by now, but it seemed the guard with the spear needed to at least keep up appearances.He was forced back up and thrown in his cell, where he lay on his stomach and waited until the shackles had been removed and the door had been locked shut again - another ritual that was followed obligingly.  
  
When a bowl was shoved through the grate at the bottom of his cell door, he took it and went back to his pallet. At least they were fed quite well. But then - Roche knew that nobody would pay for half-starved and weak fighters in the arena. The only ones starved were usually the animals and monsters that were thrown at them.  
After he had finished his meal, another larger bowl was shoved in. This time it contained warm water and a cloth. He sighed as he put it on his bruises, and started washing himself. The water in the bowl soon turned red.  
  
The noise of the key in the lock had him stand up and turn towards the wall. It had taken them one week to subdue him enough so he would no longer try to fight everybody who entered the cell. Only after several broken bones and after he nearly lost an eye had he given in. And because each and every one of his flight attempts in those early weeks had been thwarted by Roche. The man seemed to have his eyes everywhere, constantly showing Geralt how impotent the Witcher was in the damp confines of the dungeon. Geralt gnashed his teeth when he remembered the hours he spent hanging in chains from the ceiling - and Roche’s eyes glinting in the dark as he watched the Witcher getting lashed by his men.  
  
Again he was shackled and led from the cell. This time they went upstairs. Roche frequently rented out some of his fighters to those who would get a thrill from being ploughed by a one of his ‘bad boys’, as he liked to call them. Preferably right after a match in the arena. Geralt had had his fair share of sexual encounters in the last months - and although he didn’t want to admit it at first - he relished in the feeling of a warm, pliable body under his sometimes still blood covered hands when he came from a victory, adrenaline still rushing through his veins. He saw the women - and sometimes men, too - as part of his price, and therefore tried to enjoy it as much as possible. His stamina, and dedication to the pleasure of those who paid for him, quickly became known, and now there wasn’t a fight where not at least a half dozen people would try to bid for him afterwards.  
Even when he was wounded, Roche would still sell him to the highest bidder. Depending on their wishes his wounds would be taken care of before, or not. He’d had highborn ladies writhing under him on the blood-covered sheets digging their nails into openly bleeding sword gashes on his back, and moaning when they leapt up drops of his blood from his sweat-covered skin.  
He could get quite feral, especially after a particularly nasty fight, and sometimes his buyers would leave with wounds themselves. Roche had told him that those scars were seen as a distinction in certain circles and worn proudly. He had only scoffed at that - knowing full well that if he should lose his restraint only once, and inflict something more than just a light flesh wound, there would be swift and final retribution.  
  
They reached the amusement rooms Roche had furnished in the dungeon. Some had plush carpets and real beds, others were basically the same as his cell - only cleaner. Tonight the guards put him into one of the plush rooms - which surprised him. Whenever Roche himself wanted him, it was in one of the cell-like rooms. The man didn’t do plush.  
  
Pushed down on his knees near a wall, Geralt sat and waited. After a few moments he heard a commotion outside and then Roche entered.  
He was smiling in a particularly nasty way - a cold shiver went down Geralt’s spine and his skin erupted in goosebumps. He prepared himself mentally that he might leave the room with broken bones this time.  
“Fed and cleaned up, are you?” The question wasn’t really one, and Roche didn’t expect any answers. He was wearing his usual blue-striped armor and chaperon. There was no weapon on him - he’d always remove every single secret dagger he usually wore on his body, before entering Geralt’s cell. He was cautious bordering on paranoid. But that came with the job.  
  
“I have to admit, I am quite thrilled for tonight - we will be having a special guest.” Glee painted his voice “You might know him, too. I’ve been after him for longer than I can remember, and finally my little birds managed to lure him in.” He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. The door opened again and a guard stepped in - he positioned himself in the corner with a crossbow and an already cocked bolt. Geralt thought that to be over the top - especially in a rather small room like this, but when the prisoner was led in, he understood.  
There was no mistaking that tall, lithe figure. The red bandana draped around his head and half his face, the sneer and the hate in the green depths of his one good eye. Still wearing his full armor, except for his boots, gauntlets and weapon belt the Scoia’tael commander was gagged and his breath came ragged - he had been beaten up severely, to subdue him at least enough to get him into the room.  
  
The guards shackled him to a chain that hung from the ceiling in the middle of the room, and pulled him up until only the tips of his bare feet would support his weight. Then they left - only the one with the crossbow remained in the corner. The room was silent except for the hard breathing of the elf. It was pretty clear that he would have thrown himself at Roche, and killed him in an instant, if not for his bindings. The hatred that showed on his face was like an all-consuming blaze.  
Geralt swallowed hard. He was not sure if Roche’s idea of using the elf in his little games was good at all.  
The man however didn’t seem to care for the fury that stood bound in front of him. He stepped close to Iorveth and lowered his head towards his ear “You will remember this night until the end.” His smile turned vicious “And trust me, that end will come - but slowly, oh so very slowly.” he drawled and licked his tongue from the elf’s ear along his jaw and up his scar until he was stopped by the scarf. The Scoia’tael clearly hadn’t expected that at all, and it took him a few seconds to react. He tried to lift his legs and kick at the special forces commander. But Roche had anticipated the move, and was already out of his reach. Iorveth only managed to strain his shoulders and arms to the limit, and hung still after a few seconds of fighting the chain, panting hard through his gag.  
Without any other word, Roche used the momentary weakness, and stooped down to put a pair of shackles on the elf’s ankles. He pulled them taut against a metal ring set into the floor, severely limiting the room for Iorveth to move.  
  
Then he began to slowly circle around him “I never dared to hope that I would have you here - always thought you’d let yourself be killed, before being caught alive. But I have always had quite a lot of ideas what I would do with you, if I could get my hands on your body.” With that he let his hand glide down Iorveth’s back from his shoulders to his ass. The elf tried to get away from the touch but the chains were to tight. Roche started to undo some of the clasps and straps that held Iorveth’s armor and clothes. He simply dropped the pieces to the floor, and pushed the fabric of the elf’s tunic to the side. When he discovered the white skin with the tattooed vines that flowed down from the shoulder, he stepped closer, and his fingers traced the ink. At the touch on his bare skin the elf convulsed. He was fighting so hard, Geralt thought he might dislocate his shoulders. But Roche stepped back before that happened.  
“I see that you are somewhat disinclined to enjoy my ministrations. But maybe you will be more susceptible to the charms of a Witcher.” With that he mentioned to Geralt who had remained motionless on his knees, his hands still shackled behind his back.  
The Witcher stood up and approached slowly. He was a bit wary when it came to Iorveth. This was nothing like the times when he had to subdue his adversary from a fight to be able to plough him. Those men always knew that what was coming was inevitable, and mostly were too weak to put up another fight.  
  
He looked towards Roche, who simply motioned for him to go on. Iorveth glared at him, and snarled through the gag. It was simply a thin piece of cloth that had been shoved between his teeth and bound at the back of his head. His lips were trembling, and his nostrils flared when Geralt stepped even closer to him. They were of the same height but because of the chain he hung from, Iorveth was now a few inches taller than the Witcher.  
Geralt gradually closed the distance between them until he could feel the elf’s hot breath. Watching the green eye intently he moved in and sucked the elf’s lower lip into his mouth. He let his tongue run along the inside, and when he could see the initial shock in Iorveth’s eye being replaced by fury, he bit down hard. He drew blood, and when the elf tried to escape by throwing his head back, he simply followed the movement. Iorveth couldn't get far away anyhow.  
That one step closer brought him in direct contact with the elf’s body. Their chests were pressed together, and Geralt wedged his thigh between Iorveth’s. He pressed his hips against the other man, and from the widening pupil he could tell that the Scoia’tael had felt his already hard cock.  
  
Geralt gave Iorveth’s quivering, bloodied lip a last lick before he drew his head back a little and murmured “By now you should have realized that this night can end only one way. If I was you, I would try to at least get something out of it. It is gonna be painful, anyway.”With that he took a step back. He had been painfully aware of the man with the crossbow behind him. If that man hadn’t been there, he might have tried to get to Roche but for now he was not suicidal yet.  
  
Roche had sat himself down on a chair, and even through his armor and clothes it was clear that he was hard already. Sitting there with his arms crossed he slowly spread his legs.  
“Maybe you could show the elf what he could have for himself? Come over and kneel down.” With that Roche started to undo the bindings of his trousers. Geralt slowly walked over, and with one smooth move knelt down between his legs, desperately trying not to think about how much he wanted to kill Roche.  
“You see elf, this man here killed three others in the arena today. He is a killing machine but now he is just here to satisfy my needs.” Gripping Geralt’s hair the commander pushed him down onto his cock. The Witcher had never had a particular liking for that kind of service, but the constant use in the last weeks had at least made his throat open up quickly and he hardly gagged anymore.  
Roche now threaded both his hands into Geralt’s hair and started pushing and pulling. He made sure that the Witcher took his cock all the way down his throat, and every now and then he would press the man’s nose into his pubic hair until the Witcher ran out of air, delighting in the small spasms of the other man’s body when he couldn’t breathe anymore. Saliva and precum soon dripped down Geralt’s chin and his groans filled the room. With his hands tied behind his back he could do nothing but let Roche use him. And when the man put a booted foot forward, Geralt didn’t care how needy he looked, but started to rut against his shin, trying to get as much friction to his cock as possible.  
With a deep moan Roche pressed himself down his throat for one last time, and spilled his seed into the Witcher’s mouth who tried to swallow as much as possible. When the commander pulled him from his cock a few drops of the white liquid spilled over the Witcher's lips and dropped to the floor. Geralt fell back onto his haunches and breathed deeply, finally able to fill his lungs again.  
Roche put his cock back into his trousers, and went over to the elf who had watched the entire scene without any obvious reaction whatsoever. Smiling cruelly he cupped the visible bulge between Iorveth’s legs. “I knew the Witcher would have that effect. That man could get a corpse hard.”  
  
Turning to Geralt who still knelt on the floor he continued “What do you say, should we continue were the two of you left off before?” He waited for Geralt to get up again before he closed in on him. Taking his head in both his hands he kissed him hard. His tongue forced it’s way into the Witcher’s mouth and plundered it, while his thigh pressed between his legs. Geralt couldn’t help himself but he moaned deeply, and pushed against the other’s leg.  
  
When Roche finally stepped back, his breath was labored. “Time to get comfortable.” he rasped and went to the door where one of the guards handed him a small knife. With that he moved behind the elf first and began to cut away his remaining clothing piece by piece.  
Geralt just stood where Roche had left him, still hard and wanting. When the elf’s lean body was uncovered, he let his eyes wander over the powerful shoulders and down his trim torso, to the small trail of nearly invisible hair that disappeared under the waistband of his trousers. He had always thought that elves were completely without body hair but it seemed that had been a myth.  
He studied the scars that were uncovered with every cut of Roche’s knife. The blade didn’t only cut fabric, though - on more than a few occasions it nicked the skin and blood welled up. Iorveth’s breath hitched a few times, when the blade cut deeper, but no sound escaped from behind the gag.  
With a few last cuts Roche removed the Scoia’tael’s trousers. He had worn nothing underneath, and his already half-hard cock hung free. It was long and smooth - the thick vein pulsing slowly as blood filled it even more. A small drop of clear precum appeared at the tip. With a dry mouth Geralt once again took in the elf - his stretched muscles, the small cuts in his flesh, the older scars that told from his life as an outlaw and fighter. He stopped at his eye - still filled with hatred and disdain but now something else as well. A hunger that seemed to have taken hold of him, as proven by the long hard cock bobbing between his legs.  
Roche returned to the chair. He sat down, leaning back with slightly spread legs and motioned to Geralt “Take him.”  
  
The Witcher didn’t move. He was still watching the elf.  
“Remove his gag first” he said without looking away from Iorveth’s face. Roche stroked his chin “You think you can handle him? Don’t want him to bite off your tongue. The ladies would be deeply disappointed, as would I.” But he got up and moved behind the elf. With a few deft movements he had removed the gag. “And the bandana as well.” added Geralt. The look of hate that was directed at him made him feel like his skin was burned from his body.  
He knew he was in for quite the fight, but he was looking forward to it. He studied the scar, and the empty eye socket which marred the elf’s otherwise perfect face. Iorveth was licking his dry and chapped lips, the blood from Geralt’s first kiss still visible. When he spoke, his voice was rough and full of disdain “Bloede dh’oine! I will skin you alive, and throw your bodies to the beasts. You think you can break me that easily, Roche?”  
The man in question barked a short laugh. “Who said something about breaking? I want to enjoy you. I want to see how you are reduced to your basest instincts - the great Iorveth, commander of the Scoia’tael moaning and screaming, while writhing on the cock of a Witcher. That’s what I want to see,...” he leered at the elf “... before I take you myself. And then, maybe, we can talk about breaking you, and telling me where your men are hiding. But right now - I want you fighting.”  
  
Before Iorveth could say anymore, Geralt closed in on him with one step and attacked his mouth. This time he put all his power behind it, hoping desperately that the elf would not try to bite him. His tongue forced it’s way into the other man’s mouth and started exploring. He moaned openly and savored the woody, smoky taste of Iorveth’s breath. His body pressed into the elf and his breath hitched as skin touched skin. His erection in his loin cloth pressed against Iorveth’s hard cock, and he could feel the heat it radiated even through the fabric. Behind his back his hands were pressed into fists so hard that his fingernails dug into the soft flesh of his palms. Iorveth didn’t reciprocate but he also didn’t fight back - Geralt counted that as success.  
He mouthed along the elf’s jaw on his good side, and started nibbling on the soft skin under his ear. He could feel the slight quivers his treatment elicited in the elf.  
Moving down to his neck, he sucked at the skin over the artery, feeling the pulse quicken. Then he moved to the other side. Before he had constantly looked into Iorveth’s good eye - prepared to react, should he see any signs of an imminent attack. Now there was only the empty hollow were the other eye had been. He slowly licked his way up the scar - noting every shiver that ran over the Scoia’tael’s skin and every sharp indrawn breath. The elf tried to ignore what happened to him, and would snarl to mask his moans, but Geralt could clearly see that he was losing the fight between his mind and his body.  
He needed him to tip over - with a smirk he lowered his mouth, and his lips ghosted over Iorveth’s collarbone and down his pecs. When he reached his nipple, he just breathed on it lightly before he licked his tongue over the puckered flesh. This time a small moan escaped the elf. The Witcher then went all in, and sucked the nipple hard before biting down. With a shout that quickly turned into a groan Iorveth bucked in his chains.  
Geralt continued to lave his tongue over the man’s flesh. And the Scoia’tael seemed to have given up his restraint - he was positively panting at the Witcher’s ministrations, and small moans passed over his lips.  
Encouraged by this, Geralt repeated the process with the other nipple. A slew of words in the elven tongue was his answer. By now the elf had thrown his head back, and the Witcher could see his Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallowed. Iorveth had gripped the chains from which he hung and the muscles in his arms and shoulders stood out from pulling his body up.  
  
Geralt continued to move across his body with his lips and tongue, and alternated between soft touches and nibbles, and hard bites that sometimes drew blood. He would pay special attention to the cuts the elf had received from Roche before, and would suck on them, until he could feel the blood starting to flow again. In between he would venture back up, and crush his bloodstained lips against the elf’s. The Scoia’tael was no longer passive but answered in kind, by sucking Geralt’s tongue into his mouth, and licking his own blood from the other man’s lips. The wet sounds of kissing and Iorveth's whimpers where the only sounds in the room.  
  
Finally Roche, who had so far just sat there and watched with hard, lust-filled eyes, got up and grabbed Geralt by the neck. The Witcher didn’t budge at first until he felt a fist in his hair tighten painfully and he had to give. “Time for you to do what I brought you here for.” a voice rasped in his ear, and he felt the shackles opening. Before he could even move a muscle he felt the sharp blade of a dagger at his throat, drawing blood “Careful what you do next.” came the hissed warning, before the pressure disappeared, and Roche returned to his chair.  
  
Iorveth had watched the scene with interest, and his good eye shone with lust. “If you think you could just go ahead and plough me, you will be sorry, Vatt’ghern.” he sneered. Geralt ignored him, and removed his loincloth. His own cock was as hard as Iorveth’s, and when the elf saw him, he reeled back in his chains. Roche had placed a tight leather ring around the base of the Witcher's cock, and had pierced his sac with a silver ring. Every fighter in the arena wore something like that, and Roche enjoyed seeing them struggle with their inability to find release, until he allowed them to.  
  
The Witcher approached the elf again - this time his hands were free to wander over the other’s body, and when he kissed him he grabbed his head with his hands to pull him in. He pressed his lower body against Iorveth’s, and they both sighed into each others mouths when their cocks were aligned, and finally found some friction. Geralt moved his hands down the elf’s back to his tight ass. He grabbed the flesh and kneaded it.  
Then he stepped back - Roche had clearly started to become impatient and motioned for him to move on.  
Geralt lifted one hand up to the Scoia’tael’s mouth, and placed two fingers on his lower lip. “Open up. And suck.” he commanded in a low voice, and pressed the fingers into Iorveth’s mouth. Feeling them breach through and entering the soft and warm cavity, where the tongue swirled and laved around them, had him hold his breath. A look into Iorveth’s eye told him that the elf knew exactly what would come next. Anticipation, fear, hate, lust - all these feelings battled in the green depths.  
He placed his other hand on Iorveth’s chest, right over his heart, feeling it race under his fingers. Gently stroking the elf’s side as if he was trying to calm a skittish horse, he pulled his fingers from Iorveth’s mouth and stepped around him. His wet fingers found their way between the other man’s legs and to his tight puckered hole. When he started dragging his fingers over it, Iorveth shuddered in his chains. His head was tilted back, and his eye stared at the ceiling - he was panting. The Witcher slowly started to press his finger into the ring of muscle. Saliva wasn’t a very good lubricant but he had to make it work. Roche always preferred the act without oil - he relished in the discomfort and pain of the others.  
After a while Geralt finally had made it in, and again he stroked the elf’s side to calm him. “Relax and breathe out.” he murmured as he started to slowly push his finger in and out. After a while he added a second finger. Iorveth whined and his eye had closed. With a look over to the chair the Witcher added a third finger and started to increase the speed with which he sawed the elf open. Iorveth’s moans were now full of pain, and no longer lustful.  
Roche’s eyes shone and he licked his lips at those sounds. He got up and slowly stalked closer. Geralt knew what would come, and prepared himself. He pulled his fingers from Iorveth and positioned the head of his cock at the fluttering opening. He pressed lightly but didn’t breach him yet. He waited for Roche. The commander grabbed the Scoia’tael’s head with both hands, thumb digging into the empty socket and pulled Iorveth into a brutal kiss. When his tongue invaded the elf’s lips, Geralt pushed hard. The scream that tore from Iorveth was swallowed by Roche, who had sucked the elf’s tongue into his mouth.  
The Witcher managed to get nearly half his length into the elf, before he had to stop. Breathing hard, he could feel sweat starting to form on his skin. When the head of his cock had torn through the elf’s hole, Iorveth had tried to get away, and arched his back as far as the chains would allow - all the muscles in his body became taut and hard, the tendons in his neck standing out.  
Roche had taken all his screams, and only let go of him when the elf had fallen quiet. Now he hung limply in his chains, and Geralt pulled out as far as possible before thrusting in again. It seemed that there were no more screams left in the elf, he only groaned deeply when the Witcher’s hard cock pushed even further into his hot wet depths than before. It took Geralt a few more tries until he was finally seated to the hilt within the elf’s tight walls.  
He was panting hard himself, and could feel tremors going through the body before him. When he started to plough him in earnest, the elf again tried to get away at first. Roche was still standing in front of Iorveth, his fingers tracing the tattoo, and pinching and twisting his nipples. Whenever he did that, loud moans escaped Geralt, because he could feel the elf’s slick inner muscles tighten around his cock.  
  
He started to move faster and changed his angle until he could hear the elf draw a surprised breath, followed by a groan that contained more lust than pain. He kept hitting the man’s prostate with every thrust, and Iorveth began to writhe under the onslaught of pain and pleasure he received from the two other men.  
After a while Roche gripped the elf’s long and hard cock in his hand and started to pull his length. But whenever the elf seemed to come close to his release, he would stop immediately. His other hand was around the elf’s throat, and alternated between a soft caress and a hard grip that had Iorveth fight for breath. Geralt could feel himself getting closer to his own release, but he knew that with the cock ring still in place, he would not be able to spill himself. The friction of the tight ass he was reaming became nearly too much. He had one hand pressed into the flesh of Iorveth’s hip and the other in a death grip in the elf’s hair, pulling his head back as far as possible, to allow Roche access to his throat. He could feel every time Roche choked Iorveth, when the elf’s muscles tightened and the wet inner walls of his ass contracted around the Witcher’s length. The only sounds in the room where the slapping of flesh and the choked groans from the elf.  
  
Geralt concentrated on keeping up his speed, and although his stamina was by far greater than a normal man’s, he was slowly reaching his limits. When he heard Roche’s hoarse commando “Come - now!” he moaned his relief, and managed to remove the cock ring with one hand. The heat that swept through him then nearly buckled his knees. His hand was back on Iorveth’s hip - fingernails leaving deep, bloodied grooves in the elf’s flesh and his own hips started pumping erratically.  
  
With one hand in his hair bending his head back, and another choking his throat, the elf was the first to come when Roche gave his cock one final long pull and twisted his hand at the slick precum-covered head. He spilled himself and the white ropes of seed hit his stomach and splashed down to the floor. His shout reverberated in the small cell, and behind him Geralt added his own hoarse cry when, after a few more thrusts, he finally came himself, feeling his cock pumping his seed into Iorveth. When he was finished after what seemed like ages to him, and the white flashes in his vision subsided, his body still trembled with aftershocks. He rested his forehead on the elf’s sweat-slickened shoulder, taking deep breaths and trying to regain his strength.  
His cock was still half-hard and buried to the hilt in the elf. He carefully pulled himself out, and watched with a strange satisfaction when he saw white globs of his seed flowing down the elf’s thighs. Iorveth hung limply in his bonds, and only moaned when he felt the cock leave his body.  
  
The air was thick with the stink of sweat and sex and even the guard in the corner, who was supposed to kill them, if they even moved the wrong way, had definitely enjoyed watching, judging from the frantic movements with which he was putting his cock back into his trousers, trying to act nonchalantly about the wet spot on the floor in front of him.  
  
When Geralt tried to walk back in front of the elf he stumbled and had to wait a few seconds before he could trust his legs again. He knew that this was far from over - but now he wished for nothing more than something to drink. He was parched, and he could tell that Iorveth was even worse off. He imagined that the elf had had nothing to eat or drink since he had been captured. When he’d had his fingers in his mouth he had been able to tell that Iorveth was having trouble producing enough saliva to lubricate his fingers properly.  
He suddenly felt light-headed and when he wanted to step forward he simply dropped to his knees. He groaned as he hit the hard floor, only slightly cushioned by the carpet that covered the hewn rock.  
“Water, … please.” he croaked. He could hear Roche walking to the door and talk to the guards there. When he came back Geralt felt a cold cup placed at his lips. A hand steadied his head and he took deep gulps. He emptied nearly three cups before he felt like himself again. “Iorveth, too.” he managed. He could see Roche lift his eyebrow at so much compassion, but the man nevertheless got up from his side and went over to the elf. At this point Iorveth was nearly unconscious, and had difficulty swallowing.  
After a few minutes he started to come back. When Roche lifted the cup to his lips one more time, the elf spat at him.  
“So much for drinking.” Roche commented dryly and threw the cup into a corner. “Looks like your old self is back. Very good.” one corner of his mouth curled up slightly. “I’d say you were quite the sight - as I told you before, screaming and writhing on a Witcher’s cock.” he smirked when Iorveth snarled at that. “But now it is time you really got to work - on my cock.” With that Roche turned around and at his sign four guards entered the room again.  
  
Geralt was shackled to the wall first, before the men turned towards the elf. They punched him in the gut for good measure, before they released the shackles on his wrists and ankles. Breathless and limp, they had easy work when they dragged the Scoia’tael to the bed and threw him down on his stomach. Again he was shackled and put into a spreadeagled position. This time there was a bit of slack in the chains though, and the elf managed to get to his hands and knees when he tried to get up but he couldn’t move further. He ground his teeth when he realized what this limited amount of freedom meant for him.  
Roche grinned coldly behind him and turned to a wheel in the wall. When he turned it, the chains started to tighten until the elf was again laid out flat on his stomach. “Plough you, dh’oine” Iorveth hissed, and added a string of expletives in the elder tongue while he tried to pull against the chains with all the muscles on his arms and back standing out. But to no avail.  
  
Roche didn’t comment and turned to a small chest on a table. He opened it and pulled out a strange contraption. Walking over to the elf he lifted his head and pulled the leather and metal over his face. With brute force he opened the elf’s mouth and placed the metal ring in it, securing everything with the leather straps. Iorveth was forced to keep his mouth open - he could only barely move his lips around. “No more talking from you, and also no biting.” with that Roche returned to Geralt.  
He didn’t free him right away but let his hands glide over the Witcher’s pectorals, stopping every now and then to examine one of the scars with his finger tips. Geralt’s breath had already started to speed up again. Fixing his eyes on the Witcher's yellow pupils Roche took Geralt's cock in his hands and pulled hard, while grabbing his balls in the other hand. The pain had stars dance before the Witcher’s eyes but it did nothing to eliminate his erection.  
Roche bit his neck lightly and his tongue then laved a long stroke along the scar over his eye. He then continued stroking Geralt’s cock, twisting his hand every now and then, while starting to kiss the Witcher hungrily. Geralt’s lips were smashed between their teeth and the commander left them bleeding from several hard bites. When he was satisfied with the Witcher’s state of arousal he signaled the guards again. They removed the shackles but then bound his wrists in front of him with leather straps. One of them also reattached the cock ring. Geralt grunted in pain when the leather cut into the sensitive skin of his engorged member.  
  
“Our dear elf there seems to enjoy being depraved of air - time he gets to choke on a cock.” With that Roche motioned the guards to put Geralt onto the bed. They slackened the elf’s chains a bit and the Witcher crawled underneath him so that he was leaning on the headboard. With the special gag in his mouth the Scoia’tael couldn’t do anything but accept his prone position. Finally a steel chain that was connected to the headboard was placed around Geralt’s neck. It was loose enough to let him breathe freely. Both men were now fully secured and didn't stand a chance to fight against what was coming for them. This time Roche dismissed all guards from the room, including the one with the crossbow.  
  
Roche had undressed himself - he stood behind the elf, languidly stroking his own cock. It was already hard and glistening with precum. He walked around to the side of the bed and grabbed Iorveth’s head by his hair and pulled him up as far as possible. Kneeling on the bed he guided his cock into the elf’s open mouth “This is your only chance at lubrication - use it.” and with that he started to piston in and out of the elf’s mouth. Geralt watched in anticipation, and fisted his own cock, smearing precum all over it. Iorveth gargled but Roche never deep-throated him. The Witcher knew that the elf was in for a rough ride - Roche’s cock was not as long as his, but thicker - and the elf was not stretched enough for a smooth experience. Iorveth seemed to know that as well, because he was laving the hard meat in his mouth desperately. But all too soon Roche withdrew and moved behind the elf.  
  
Geralt watched Iorveth’s face closely, and saw his pupil widen when Roche started to push. The elf tried to move forward, away from the pressure but Roche had his hips in an iron grip, and didn’t let him go anywhere. The elf’s breath now came in pants, and panic fought with pain in his eye. His hands started skidding on the bed, trying to find purchase, and he grabbed the blanket and fisted it hard. When Roche finally managed to enter him, a throaty shout came over his lips, followed by a pain filled groan. Roche spat down on Iorveth’s hole to get some more lubrication because it was painful even for him. Finally he thrust all the way in, and the elf gave one last scream when he was stretched to his limit. Sweat was beading between his shoulder blades, and he tried desperately to get onto his hands and knees. Roche let him lift his ass up but then pushed his head back down between the Witcher’s legs.  
He then grabbed a bunch of the elf’s hair and pulled his head back - the intention of the movement clear. Geralt moved and placed the head of his engorged cock at the open mouth where saliva was dripping out in a constant thin trail, because the elf could not close his lips to swallow it. Slowly Geralt moved the precum-smeared head of his cock around the chapped lips. He moaned at the contact with the rough skin. Then Roche pushed the elf forward onto the Witcher’s cock. This time all the way down, until Iorveth’s nose was pressed against Geralt’s pubic bone. The witcher took his bound hands and placed them on the elf’s head, to hold him there. Roche turned back and gripped Iorveth’s hips with both hands. Then he started thrusting. He used long and slow strokes - he didn't want it to end too soon.  
  
When Geralt felt the elf finally swallowing around his cock he threw his head back and moaned loudly. His hips started to buck out of their own volition. Pulling the elf first back by his hair he pushed him back immediately. Iorveth had hardly time to draw a breath. The knuckles of his fists in the blanket were white and the muscles on his neck and shoulders where bunched up while he tried to accommodate both the huge cock in his tight hole as well as the cock in his throat. Geralt could see that tears had started to spring from his good eye, and he reached with his hands to collect a drop from the elf’s face on his finger. Slowly he brought his bound hands to his mouth and licked the salty liquid from his fingertip all the while fixing Iorveth’s glare. Geralt's pupils shone with lust and were mere slits in the golden irises and he could see a sea of pain in the elf’s green one. But like before there was something else behind it.  
  
A grim smile curled Geralt’s lips when he took the elf’s head back in his hands, and started pushing back into his mouth. He could feel the rough surface of Iorveth's tongue on the underside of his cock - it twirled around and he groaned.  
Behind the elf, Roche kept his rhythm, pulling nearly all the way out, before pushing in again. Sweat was glistening on his skin and his eyes shone feverish, glazed with lust.  
  
Iorveth would choke every time Geralt shoved his cock deep down his throat. Occasionally he would stop, cock lodged deep within the wet heat, and watch the elf struggle to breathe with his whole body starting to tremble, and his arms flailing in their chains. When that happened, Roche would moan blissfully at the muscles contracting around his cock. Saliva, precum and tears soon coated the elf’s beautiful face and his moans filled the room. Again Geralt felt the tightening coil in his core.  
He was unaware that the chain around his neck started shortening. He was pulled fully back to the headboard, where the chain disappeared into a whole in the wall. When his head was pressed against the hard wood, the chain continued to tighten. This time around his neck.  
He could feel the cold metal bite into his skin, and started feeling dizzy when the pressure blocked the blood flow to his head. His breathing became shallow and he started choking. During all that he continued thrusting his cock into Iorveth’s mouth. The dizzy feeling in his head intensified, and he started to fade. Only when his hips faltered and he stopped pushing into the elf’s mouth he could feel the chain slacken and he drew a deep breath. His vision cleared again, and he redoubled his efforts in fucking the elf’s mouth. The chain was still tight enough to limit his breathing, and he could feel spittle fly out of his mouth with his labored breaths and groans.  
  
Iorveth then started to whine, Roche had hit the hidden spot of nerves inside him, and Geralt could see the elf’s cock swinging under his belly leaking copious amounts of precum. The vibrations from Iorveth gagging on his cock and the elf’s moans had him close his eyes and groan.  
Roche had changed his rhythm, and was pistoning in and out of the elf’s tight hole with short, powerful thrusts. Then Geralt felt fingers on his cock - Roche was reaching over and loosening the cock ring while still pounding into Iorveth. The elf was barely alive between them and his moans had subsided to a constant whimper. But when Roche’s hand reached down to his front and started stroking his cock with long, strong pulls he suddenly stiffened, his eye turned up in his head, and he screamed around the cock in his mouth.  
He came hard, his body convulsing, his throat contracting erratically around the Witcher’s length and Geralt was dragged with him, shouting his own release into the room, and spilling his seed down the elf’s throat.  
  
Roche was last and with one powerful final shove into the elf he emptied himself into the tight, hot insides of the man in front of him. He groaned loudly and his fingernails left bloody trails on the Scoia’tael’s hips right beside the deep grooves Geralt’s nails had left there before. He collapsed onto the elf and Iorveth was pushed down onto his stomach, not able to bear the full weight of the man on top of him.  
  
Geralt lay still, feeling the last small tremors of his release pass through his body. The chain around his neck had slackened completely, and he drew deep breaths while still moaning occasionally. He could feel Iorveth’s saliva and his own seed that dripped out of the elf's mouth collecting in the groove between his thigh and hip. The elf lay there with his eye half-closed drawing ragged breaths through his ravaged throat. Geralt started to card the fingers of his bound hands lightly through the elf’s hair, gently massaging his scalp.  
Roche remained unmoving on top of the Scoia’tael. He was still buried deep within him and thrust lightly every now and then, moaning quietly. After some time the commander raised himself from the bed. With a wet sound he pulled his cock from the elf, eliciting a painful groan. He stumbled to his chair and sat down.  
  
Geralt continued to stroke the elf’s hair, and was quietly relieved when the man started to breath normally. Roche motioned to him, “Remove the gag, I doubt he needs it anymore.” and Geralt started unbuckling the straps at the back of Iorveth’s head. When he pulled the contraption out of his mouth the elf groaned and the Witcher could see the blood on his lips and gums where the metal had bit into his flesh. Carefully Iorveth tried to close his mouth - it was clearly painful.  
Geralt took his chin and lifted his head to look him in the eye. It was definitely Iorveth who looked back at him - contempt already showing in the green iris.  
“You ok?” Geralt asked quietly and was rewarded with a small nod and a sigh from the man. Iorveth then put his head back onto Geralt’s thigh, and the Witcher felt him relax a bit.  
  
Roche was cleaning himself up and watched them with sharp eyes.“I think I know what I’m going to do with the two of you!” his grin became sardonically. Geralt watched him with cold eyes, and imagined his fingers around the man’s throat, slowly squeezing the life out of him.  
Roche seemed to read his thoughts and barked out a laugh before getting up and dressing himself. He took a bottle of wine that had been placed by the guards and poured himself a cup. He drained it in one go and then turned towards the door.  
“Take them back. Separate cells. Also give them something to clean up. Food and drink as well, they have earned it today.” with that he shot one last look at the two bodies on the bed and walked out of the room.

**Author's Note:**

> Right now this is a one-shot. But I have the slight suspicion that I might revisit the dungeon. I need to find out what Roche has planned for the two, at least.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
